


Before

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Trip [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting, Viridians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The young man Jon rescued from a brutal life on a Klingon outpost seems pleasant and friendly, though increasingly devoted to him. Jon finds this convenient, like when he wants to take care of Porthos. T’Pol finds it disturbing, like when he hits Malcolm for insulting Jon. Series of vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            Jon entered Sickbay slowly, slightly bemused by the sight of the young man lying on his stomach on the biobed, studying a data pad. Trip looked up at his presence and grinned brightly. "Captain Archer!" he greeted excitedly, pulling the earpiece he'd been listening through out and maneuvering himself into a sitting position on the bed.

            Archer tried to smile in return, but he was a little taken aback by the young man's appearance—he'd been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that most of the dark spots he'd seen on Trip's face on the outpost were the result of dirt, but after a thorough cleaning on _Enterprise_ , almost all of them seemed to be bruises. His smile of greeting had pulled at a split lip, and even when sitting up he had winced. "How are you feeling?" Archer asked optimistically.

            "I feel great," Trip assured him enthusiastically. "You've got a really nice ship here. And Dr. Phlox is really nice, too."

            "I'm glad to hear it," Jon answered. "Is the doctor around?"

            "I think he stepped out for a minute," Trip told him. "He told me he would be right back and _not to get off this biobed_."

            Archer smirked a little at that and went to him. "What are you reading?" he asked, gesturing at the data pad.

            Trip handed it to him. "I'm learning to read and speak the language you speak."

            "English? That's very ambitious of you."

            "Well, I want to fit in better," Trip explained earnestly. "It's kind of awkward to use the translating thing."

            "I suppose it is," Archer conceded. "How far have you gotten?"

            "Well, I'm not _too_ sure…" Trip peered at the data pad. "I'm on the fourth level of lessons now, for reading, which I guess is better than third or second or first. But speaking's more difficult."

            Archer had to admit he was impressed as he looked over the latest lesson. "You seem to be making rapid progress," he decided. The young man beamed at him.

            The door to Sickbay opened and Phlox entered. "Ah, Captain!"

            "I stayed right here on the bed!" Trip assured him peremptorily.

            "I'm sure you did," Phlox agreed cheerfully.

            Archer handed the data pad back to Trip. "Well, keep up the good work," he advised. "I'm sure you'll be speaking English perfectly pretty soon."

            "Thanks, Captain."

            Archer wandered over to the far side of the Sickbay, with Phlox dutifully following him, as Trip resumed his former position on the bed and plugged his earpiece back in to continue his lessons.

            "He seems happy enough," Archer observed, glancing back at Trip between the shelves of containers.

            "Oh, he's very pleasant company, Captain," Phlox agreed, then added a bit more somberly, "Although I'm sure almost anyplace would be preferable to that outpost."

            Which was what Archer wanted to ask him about. "How's he doing?"

            "Cuts, contusions, sprains, strains," the doctor summarized. "There's no serious injuries at the moment, but evidence suggests that he's had a number of broken bones in the past and other internal trauma. He's had a very hard life, Captain. I can only assume that his species must have some enhanced healing ability, as I'm skeptical of that outpost's medical facilities, as you described it."

            "Wait—his _species_?"

            Phlox looked at him in some surprise. "Well, yes, Captain. I'm not sure what species that _is_ exactly, but—"

            "He's not human?"

            Phlox nearly laughed at him. "Oh, no, not at all. Internal anatomy is completely different. His genetic material is composed of different compounds—oh, no, he's definitely not human."

            Archer stole another glance at the young man. "But you don't know what species he _is_."

            Phlox shook his head. "No, haven't a clue, really. There's nothing similar in the database and he says _he_ doesn't remember, so… I thought perhaps, with your permission, I might contact some of my colleagues to make inquiries."

            Archer nodded his assent. "Of course, Doctor. The sooner we figure out what he is, the sooner we can get him wherever he's supposed to be."

            "He doesn't seem to remember anything except for life on the Klingon outpost," Phlox pointed out. "Even if he had a world to go to, it seems unlikely he'd know anyone there."

            "Well, surely he has family," Archer assumed. "Someone who was looking for him, at one point." They watched Trip mouth the words to his lesson for a moment. "Do you think he would be alright in crew quarters? I don't want him bothering you here."

            "Oh, he's no bother," the doctor assured him. "I'd like to keep him under observation for another day or two, but after that, I see no reason why he shouldn't move out to the rest of the ship. I think he'd quite enjoy it, actually."

Archer agreed. "Let me know if you discover anything else about him. Especially any memories he might have of where he's from."

            "Of course, Captain. I'll keep you informed."

 

            "I don't know any of these," Trip sighed, pulling the earpiece away and setting his latest data pad down on the bed. Phlox had presented him with a list of files Hoshi had compiled, of simple words in hundreds of different languages from the many worlds they knew of, hoping that Trip might recognize something from his homeworld. But all he understood was a Klingon dialect.

            "Well, we knew it was a long shot," Phlox reminded him cheerfully. The failure of the project seemed to have dragged down the young man's normally buoyant spirits to an unusual degree. Or perhaps he was just getting restless after two days in Sickbay.

            "Do you think Captain Archer will come by again soon?"

            Phlox barely avoided rolling his eyes as he turned away from the computer monitor. It was the third time in about twenty-four hours that the young man had asked the same question. "The Captain is very interested in how you are doing," the doctor replied smoothly, "but I'm sure he's also quite busy with his duties on the ship."

            Trip nodded slowly but did not seem to derive much comfort from the comment.

            "I'm sure you must think very highly of Captain Archer," Phlox began leadingly. "After all, he did help you to leave the outpost…"

            "Absolutely," Trip agreed. "He was the first person who was ever nice to me."

            "Oh, surely at your age, there must have been other nice people you've encountered," Phlox protested gently. By human standards, at least, Trip appeared to be a fully grown male, perhaps twenty-five or thirty years old in the Captain's estimation; although Phlox supposed that, unfortunately, it was _possible_ he had lived all that time in the same sort of conditions in which Archer had found him, he didn't want to let the young man get away with vague generalizations. Focus on the positive, as it were.

            But Trip was insistent, if matter-of-fact. "Nope. I never met anybody but the Klingons anyway."

            "And they never happened to mention where, exactly, you were from? Your whole life?"

            Trip shook his head. "No. I wasn't really there for conversation. Just to work." He perked up a bit. "But then, Captain Archer came, and even though he was a prisoner he was nice to me. He helped me tie up my arm when I got hurt, and he tried to get the Klingons to stop hitting me. And _then_ "—Phlox had heard this several times as well, but it seemed to please Trip a great deal to retell it—"when we were leaving, and I fell behind, he _came back for me_. And fought the Klingons too. He could've just left me."

            "Yes, Captain Archer does have many admirable qualities," Phlox allowed, wondering if perhaps the lack of attention from the Captain recently was playing a part in Trip's melancholia. "But you can't remember _anything_ besides the outpost?" The doctor had to admit that their conversations were taking a rather repetitive turn, but he knew that memories often needed time to resurface. "Not anything that seemed strange, or unlikely to be the outpost, even if you don't know where else it was?"

            Trip shook his head. "Nope. I've been thinking about it, like you said. But I don't remember anything like that."

            "What's the first thing you do remember?" A new question, at least.

            "Crying." Phlox glanced up from his screen. "The Klingons have this animal, called a _targ_ , like a pet," Trip continued quietly. "I had a baby one that I played with, took care of. I guess, I don't really remember that part." He was staring blankly at the wall above the Sickbay doors. "One day the chief threw it down on the table in front of me. It was dead. He laughed. Young _targ_ is a Klingon delicacy. I had to prepare it for them."

 

            "Ah, Captain!" Phlox hailed Archer as he saw him in the hall.

            "Doctor," Archer greeted. "How's your tenant today?"

            "Healing at an above-average rate," Phlox reported happily. "And—speaking English."

            Archer stared at him. "Already? It's been what—two days?"

            "Well, it's not of great oratorical sophistication," the doctor admitted, "but we manage to communicate without the Universal Translator. His species must have a very rapid assimilation of information," Phlox added in a thoughtful tone. "He's reading full-length novels now."

            Archer was impressed. "Any more ideas about what species that is?"

            "Unfortunately, no," Phlox confessed. "However, I did discover something which you might find very interesting."

            "Oh?"

            "According to genetic and physiological studies I've conducted, I've managed to determine his physical age."

            "Which is?" Archer prompted.

            "About 18 months, Earth time."

            The Captain stopped short in the hall. "Eighteen months."

            "Indeed." Phlox sounded very pleased with himself. "Rapid assimilation of information goes very well with rapid aging—I believe his whole species might go through their entire life cycle in as little as six Earth years."

            "Making him—" Archer started the calculations in his head, but Phlox had already figured it out.

            "Roughly twenty-five years old, developmentally speaking," the doctor answered. "Although of course that's only an estimate, we really have no idea what kind of emotional development cycle his species follows."

            Interesting. "Well, I guess it makes a lot more sense now why he can only remember living on that outpost," he finally decided.

            "Indeed. Mmm, Captain…" Phlox added thoughtfully, "Perhaps you could drop by to see him every now and then. He's developed a bit of hero-worship for you, I think." He knew of Archer's innate discomfort with the entire "hero" idea but pressed on, "I think it would be a tremendous boost to him, after all he doesn't know anyone else on the ship." Phlox shrugged. "Doesn't seem to know anyone else in the universe, it seems, except those Klingons. Even the pet he had once they apparently consumed, so…"

            "What?" Archer asked in confusion.

            "Oh, a _targ_ , I think he called it," Phlox relayed. "Apparently their young constitute a fine meal for the Klingons, with the fact that it was Trip's only companion being irrelevant."

            "Or an additional enticement," Archer muttered under his breath.

            "Yes, I suppose so." 

 

            When Archer entered Sickbay, the first thing he noticed was Trip, curled up on the floor underneath a desk. Instantly he imagined that some kind of painful convulsion or injury had driven him there and hurried over. "Trip? Trip!"

            The young man opened his eyes and blinked a few times. "Captain Archer!" he exclaimed, a huge grin breaking across his face. He began to unfold himself.

            "Are you alright?" Archer persisted, helping him up.

            "Oh, yeah, I'm fine, I was just taking a nap," Trip assured him, stretching.

            "A nap," Jon repeated blankly. "On the floor?"

            Trip didn't look the slightest bit sheepish. "Well it's cozy there under the desk, and kind of warm by the imaging chamber. It hums a little."

            "Dr. Phlox doesn't prefer you to sleep on a bed?" Jon probed casually.

            Trip shrugged. "The beds are a little too soft for me," he admitted.

            "Okay." Archer refocused on what he had come to Sickbay to do. "How are you feeling today?"

            "I feel really good," Trip told him happily. "I'm speaking English, no translator. And I've been reading these really long books. They're pretty good."

            "Oh really," Archer remarked. He had to admit that Trip at least _looked_ better, with a number of bruises noticeably faded. "What's your favorite?"

            Trip blinked at him for a moment, thinking. "I really like these adventure novels from hundreds of years ago, where these people are sailing on wooden ships out on the ocean."

            "Like Horatio Hornblower?" Archer guessed.

            "Yeah, exactly," Trip agreed.

            Jon smiled. "Those were always my favorite, too. I read all of them when I was a boy." He glanced around but didn't see Phlox. "Well, if the doctor could spare you for a little while, Trip, I was thinking you might be able to help me with my dog."

            "Sure, Captain," Trip told him eagerly. "What's a dog?"

            "Come on, I'll show you," Archer told him, as they left Sickbay. "He's like a pet I have on the ship. His name is Porthos. We've been together for a long time."

            "Really? I didn't know they let you have pets on the ship."

            "Captain's privilege," Jon grinned. "Here we go," he added when they reached his quarters. Porthos looked up from where he'd been napping on the bed when the door slid open.

            Trip looked astounded and delighted by the animal. "Ooh, Porthos."

            "He's very friendly," Jon assured him. "See, you can pick him up like this. Just—don't be too rough with him."

            "Oh, no, sir," Trip said solemnly, taking the dog as Jon handed him over. Porthos immediately licked Trip's face, which the young man seemed to enjoy a great deal.

            "I think he likes you," Jon decided. "Do you want to help me take him for a walk? He gets bored cooped up in my quarters all day."

            "Could I, sir?"

            Jon smiled. "Let's go."

            "Uh, Trip—" Jon commented a few minutes later, "the purpose of taking the dog for a walk is so the _dog_ can _walk_."

            "Oh, right." Trip carefully set Porthos down in the hallway. And stayed down on all fours with him, looking at whatever Porthos was looking at.

            Archer involuntarily glanced up and down the hall to see if there were any witnesses, then shook his head. Captain's privilege was also to look a little strange to the crew sometimes. "Here's a toy he likes to play with," he added, pulling a slightly chewed rubber ball out of his pocket. He dropped to a crouch next to the pair and showed Porthos the ball. "Here you go, boy. Yes, you know what this is, don't you? Go fetch!" Archer tossed the ball a ways down the hall, towards the dead end of the airlock where it wouldn't be in the way. Porthos barked and immediately ran off after it. A moment later he had retrieved the toy and came trotting back to them with it.

            Trip's jaw dropped. "He is _so_ smart," he breathed, thoroughly amazed.

            Jon tried not to grin too much, in case Trip thought he was making fun of him. Which he kind of was, a little, but not too much. "Here, give it a try."

            Trip tossed the ball in the same direction and sure enough, Porthos brought it back to them and dropped it on the floor in front of Jon. "Wow. Are all dogs this smart?"

            "Well, I think Porthos is particularly intelligent," Jon had to admit. "He could just do this for hours," he added. "Why don't you play with him, just for a little while until you get tired of it, and then you can bring him back to Sickbay with you?"

            "Okay, Captain," Trip agreed happily, settling onto the floor. "I'll take really good care of him, I promise."

            "I'm sure you will. I'll see you later, okay."

            "See you, Captain."

 

            "And here's the duty roster for tomorrow," T'Pol added, handing Archer a data pad as they walked down the hall.

            The Captain stifled a yawn as he glanced at the list then gave it back. "Looks good. Anything interesting on the route for tomorrow?"

            T'Pol considered his question. "We are passing within point five lightyears of the Crestus system, which has several planets of unusual geologic activity—"

            The two of them came up short as a red rubber ball bounced past their feet, followed by a small beagle. "Porthos?" Archer said in confusion, scooping the dog up. "What are you doing out here?" The officers glanced around the corner, where Trip was just getting up from the floor.

            "Oh, hey there, Captain," he greeted cheerfully, heading over to them. He picked the forgotten ball up and held it up for Porthos to nibble on. "You were right, he just _loves_ playing this game. That's the first time he hasn't come back."

            Archer stared at him. "How long have you been playing fetch with Porthos?"

            Trip shrugged. "Since you left us here."

            "That was four hours ago."

            The young man's face fell. "I'm sorry, did I hurt him or something? I didn't mean to."

            Jon sighed. "No, no, nothing like that, it's just—I usually get bored around twenty minutes."

            Porthos whined and sniffed in T'Pol's direction. The Vulcan tried not to wrinkle her nose in utter distaste but did back away half a step. "If you'll excuse me, Captain," she said quickly, "I should return to the Bridge." Jon tried not to laugh at her hasty retreat.

            "Are-are you sure he's gonna be okay, Captain?" Trip persisted, following Jon down the hall. "He just kept on going, bringing that ball back—"

            "I think he'll be fine, Trip," Jon assured him, opening the door to his cabin. "But you're going to sleep well tonight, boy, aren't you?" He set the dog down and Porthos immediately ran to his empty food bowl, staring up at Jon accusingly. "Okay, okay," he agreed, pulling a food packet from a drawer. "I bet you _are_ hungry." He glanced back over his shoulder to see Trip watching him avidly. "Here, you want to feed him?"

            Trip grinned and took the packet. "Just open it and empty the food into the bowl there," Jon explained, having now learned not to take it for granted that Trip would use what Jon at least considered common sense. He picked up the water bowl and headed into the bathroom to fill it from the faucet.

            "Here you go, boy," he heard Trip saying. "Yummy food for you. Hmm, that _is_ kind of good, isn't it? It's all crunchy."

            Jon jerked back out of the bathroom. Trip was kneeling on the floor by Porthos, petting him as he ate and—chewing on something. "Uh, Trip," he began carefully, setting the water bowl down next to Porthos. The young man looked up at him with innocent blue eyes and Jon suddenly didn't have the heart to make the distinction between dog food and people food for him. It wasn't like the dog food would really hurt him, anyway. "Are you hungry? I was going to grab a bite to eat in the Mess Hall."

            "Yeah, I'm starving," Trip agreed, standing.

            "I'm just going to wash my hands," Jon told him deliberately, "after handling the dog."

            "Oh, yeah, good idea," Trip decided, lining up next to him. "Dr. Phlox says hand-washing is very important. He always washes his hands after feeding his animals."

            Jon dried his hands on a towel while Trip lathered up—up to the elbows, like he was preparing for surgery. Definitely something he'd learned in Sickbay. "So, what do you want to eat for dinner?" he asked, when the were finally on their way.

            "A chicken salad sandwich," Trip replied promptly.

            Jon gave him a sideways look. "That's funny, I was just thinking I'd like the same thing."

            Trip seemed to think this was only natural. "Good. But what's a chicken?" he wondered aloud. "And what's a salad?"

 

            T'Pol was heading down to Engineering for a routine check when she spotted someone coming out of the Captain's cabin ahead of her. It was not, however, Captain Archer—but Trip. He was carrying the Captain's dog and did not appear to be followed by the Captain himself. To T'Pol this seemed most unusual.

            "Trip," she began in a neutral tone, causing the young man to turn around.

            "Oh, hey there Commander," he greeted pleasantly.

            T'Pol planted herself in the hallway, forcing him to stop to talk to her. "Is the Captain in his quarters?" she asked, starting with the most logical explanation she could think of.

            Trip shook his head. "No, ma'am, he's…" Trip seemed to be thinking, listening almost. "He's in Cargo Bay 3."

            T'Pol narrowed her eyes at him slightly. "Did he let you into his quarters before going to the cargo bay?" she persisted.

            Trip did not seem unnerved by her questions. "No, ma'am."

            "Then how did you get in?"

            "He gave me the entry code."

            The Vulcan found this behavior illogical to say the least. "Please elaborate on that statement."

            The young man seemed a little confused by her phrasing. "Well, the Captain gave me the entry code to his cabin so I could take care of Porthos," he explained, scratching the dog behind his ear. "So I could take him for a walk and play with him and feed him without bothering the Captain."

            T'Pol made no response, merely stepped aside and indicated he should continue his path.

 

            Archer was studying a report in his Ready Room when the door chimed. "Come in," he called distractedly. T'Pol entered and stood quietly for a moment until he turned to her.

            "And what can I do for you, Commander?" he asked pleasantly.

            The Vulcan had thought about how best to phrase this, given the human tendency to take offense at simple statements of fact. "I was on my way to Engineering today when I passed your cabin," she began. "Trip was leaving it, with Porthos." Archer looked at her as if to say, _Yes. And?_ "He appeared to have let himself in and said you had given him the entry code to your quarters."

            "Yes, I did, a few days ago," Archer replied, confused. "Something wrong?"

            "Captain," T'Pol said in her best not-quite-a-lecture tone, "we know very little about this person, his abilities, his… character. We do not even know his species. Do you think it wise to allow him such freedom of access to your personal quarters?"

            Archer had this way of smiling when you knew he really wanted to frown, especially when he was starting to disagree with someone. "He likes to play with Porthos," Jon told her, as if T'Pol would consider that an adequate explanation. "I figured it would be easier to just give him the code, instead of me having to go down there all the time."

            "That hardly seems sufficient reason," the First Officer opined. "Sir."

            "Oh, come on, T'Pol," Archer countered. "What do you think he's going to do? Steal one of my water polo trophies? He's never touched a thing, except for Porthos's food and toys."

            Humans often needed reasons explicitly laid out for them that would have been completely obvious to Vulcans, T'Pol had observed. "He may try to enter your quarters when you do not wish it," she suggested.

            Archer all but rolled his eyes at her. "Sneak up on me in the night and try to kill me?" he guessed. "If someone were determined to do that, I doubt the entry codes would deter them. Besides, Trip is harmless."

            "We cannot be sure of that," T'Pol pointed out. "We do not understand the behavioral tendencies of his species under average conditions, nor how the isolated and traumatic existence Trip has led might change them. While he seems harmless at the moment, in a time of crisis or conflict, that may change."

            "In which case I would change the entry code to my cabin," Archer assured her simply.

            T'Pol could see that he was getting tired of this subject and she didn't want to be an alarmist. After all, she had no evidence that Trip had unsavory intentions in any way. "I am merely suggesting that you exercise caution, Captain," she reminded him, as a closing statement. "He does seem unusually fixated on you."

            "I'll be careful." He did not sound like he was taking her advice very seriously.

 

            Hoshi was almost done with her meal when she saw the young man enter the Mess Hall—followed by Porthos, the Captain's beagle. What Chef would say about _that_ if he found out, she didn't like to guess. The Communications Officer watched surreptitiously as Trip gathered some food from the shelf and filled his mug from the drink dispenser, then settled down at a small table in the corner. Unself-consciously he lifted Porthos onto the table top—pushing him away from Trip's own plate of food several times—and opened a packet of dog food into an empty bowl. They both started eating contentedly.

            Hoshi thought it over for a moment, then picked up her mug of tea and walked over to him. "Hi," she greeted cheerfully. "Is anyone sitting here?"

            "No, ma'am," he told her.

            There was a pause as Hoshi waited for him to indicate that she should sit. "Do you mind if I join you, then?" she prompted, and he finally seemed to understand.

            "Go ahead, ma'am," he replied quickly. "Come on, Porthos, scoot over." Trip pulled the dog's food bowl closer to his own plate so Hoshi could have more space on the table.

            "Hoshi Sato," she introduced, holding out her hand. "I'm the Communications Officer."

            Trip blinked, stared at her hand for a moment, then reached out and took it with his own, without shaking. Close enough, she decided. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he informed her. "My name's Trip. Say," he added brightly, "you're the one that made up that data pad for me. That was nice of you."

            Hoshi waved it off. "You're welcome. I just wish it could have been more helpful."

            "Oh, there were lots of very interesting languages on it," Trip assured her. "I just never heard any of them before." He pulled his sandwich out of Porthos's reach. "You've got your own food," he reminded the dog. "This might not be good for you."

            "The dialect of Klingon that you speak is very unusual," Hoshi commented, hoping to find some topic of common interest. "It's in the Universal Translator database, but we don't have many examples of people speaking it."

            Trip shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Yeah, well… I'm not really that good at speaking it. Makes my throat hurt."

            "Your accent is intriguing as well," Hoshi went on, then laughed a little, embarrassed. "Sorry. Hazard of the job, I guess, commenting on how people speak."

            Trip smiled at her. "Well, the Klingons used to say I talked funny, too, so maybe I was just born with it or something." Hoshi made a mental note to research that idea later—a genetically-ingrained accent was not a common trait as far as she knew and might help the doctor and the Captain in determining his homeworld.

            Suddenly the ensign did a double-take as she realized that Porthos was drinking out of the mug Trip had brought to the table. Following her gaze Trip attempted to reassure her. "Oh, don't worry, that's just water." He scratched Porthos behind his ear, then picked up the mug and drank from it himself. Hoshi fought to control her facial expression. "The other day, I gave him some iced tea, and he didn't like that at all, did you, boy? Doctor Phlox said I should just stick to water for him, and not give him any people food, especially cheese." Trip blinked as if thinking to himself for a moment. "Not real sure what cheese is, though." He shrugged as if it were of little importance.

            Now beginning to wonder about anyone in the room who might be watching them, Hoshi leaned forward a bit and began in a quiet, friendly voice, "Just so you know…" Trip looked up at her with interest. "The stewards usually don't like having pets in the Mess Hall, especially on the tables."

            Trip glanced around quickly as if he expected armed guards to come rushing out at him. "Oh. Even Porthos?"

            "Well, actually," Hoshi pointed out, "he's the only pet on board. Except for the doctor's creatures, which are almost always in their cages."

            The young man appeared to be thinking this idea over, and he wasn't liking it. "Just doesn't seem right to me," he finally admitted. "I mean, Porthos is well-behaved, he's just sitting here eating like everyone else. And if he makes a mess I'll clean it up."

            "Well," Hoshi tried, apologetically, "I think it's more about the cleanliness of the animal itself. Himself. You know, hairs and dirt and things like that."

            "Oh, Porthos is _real_ clean," Trip assured her. Having finished his sandwich he let the dog lick the crumbs off the plate. "We just took a shower this morning, didn't we, boy?" He cuddled the dog close to him and Porthos licked at his face happily. "You liked that, didn't you? Except for getting soap in your eyes. That wasn't fun."

            Hoshi just tried to smile and shake her head.

 

            Trip winced as Phlox ran the scanner over his swollen eye. "Now, hold still, young man," the doctor advised calmly, checking the results of the exam.

            "I'm going to get into trouble for this, aren't I?" Trip sighed dejectedly.

            Phlox had to agree as he gave his patient an injection in the neck. "Captain Archer does take a rather dim view of the use of violence to resolve conflicts," he replied reluctantly, watching the young man slump even further on the biobed. "Especially differences of opinion."

            Phlox attempted to dab some ointment on the cuts and bruises Trip displayed, but his patient kept squirming, finally turning to look at another patient who lay unconscious on a bed. "Is he going to be okay?"

            "I've sedated him," Phlox said by way of reply, in case Trip thought _he_ had rendered the other man senseless. "His injuries are not extensive and will heal soon enough."

            Phlox was about to say more when the door to Sickbay opened and Captain Archer walked in, a grim look on his face. Trip reacted strongly to his presence, as the doctor had noticed he always did, this time caught somewhere between pleasure at the Captain's appearance and discomfort at his anger.

            Archer's eyes flickered from Trip to Lt. Reed, who lay on the other biobed, and Phlox knew he was thinking the same thing Trip had. "Minor injuries only, Captain," he repeated quickly, "a broken nose being the most severe. Ah, if you'll permit me." He directed Archer's attention to the screen over the imaging chamber. "Lt. Reed seems to have picked up a slight case of Morauvian fever. I suspect those cargo containers we brought aboard last week." Purplish bacterial cells danced across the screen; Archer took the doctor's word for it. "It's not life-threatening, but it does tend to cause personality changes—heightened irritation, paranoia. I'd like to examine and inoculate the rest of the crew."

            Archer nodded his consent. "These personality changes—would they be severe enough to cause him to attack Trip?" There was a certain amount of hope in his voice.

            "I hit him first," Trip confessed, saving Phlox the trouble of saying they _wouldn't_.

            "What happened?" Archer asked in clipped tones, fixing his gaze on the young man.

            Trip kept his eyes firmly on his lap. "Well, he was—he was sayin' stuff, about you—that—" The words tumbled out quickly. "That you weren't a good captain and you weren't doing a good job running the ship."

            "Probably the fever talking, Captain," Phlox put in quietly.

            "So you _hit_ him?" Archer demanded of Trip.

            The younger man squirmed uncomfortably. "Well, it—it… made me mad, when he said that." He still couldn't meet Archer's gaze.

            Jon stepped close to him, forcing Trip to look up at him. "On my ship we do not lash out in anger," he stated firmly, his voice cold. "No matter what the provocation. Is that understood?" The Klingons who had "raised" Trip obviously did things differently, but Archer couldn't let that be his excuse.

            Trip nodded glumly. "Yes, sir," he answered, barely audible.

            Jon backed up, turning to the doctor. "Are you done with him?" Phlox nodded. "You're to report to the Brig immediately," he continued to Trip. "You can spend the night there, and you will apologize to Lt. Reed as soon as he's able."

            Both men watched silently as Trip nodded, slid off the bed, and trudged out of Sickbay, thoroughly chastened. Archer had no doubt he would indeed head straight for the Brig. Phlox felt compelled to point out, "He's very devoted to you, Captain. And really quite docile most of the time, as you know."

            Archer shook his head, continually mystified by this young man they'd had aboard for only a month. "I can't have him going around attacking people who criticize me." Phlox had to agree with that. "Have you been able to determine his species yet?"

            The doctor shook his head. "Unfortunately no. I might have a lead, though, a ship of merchant traders my colleague Dr. Lucas mentioned who had displayed some similar physiology. I'll be looking into that further."

            Archer nodded. "Keep me advised."

 

            Malcolm was in the Armory reviewing the incident reports from the two days he'd been lodged in Sickbay and trying to follow Phlox's instructions not to itch under the bandage covering his nose. D—n hard, though. The door to the room opened and Malcolm wasn't exactly sure how to react when he saw who it was. "You haven't come to finish the job, have you?" he suggested, trying for a bit of dark humor while simultaneously eyeing the nearby cabinet of phase pistols.

            "No, sir," Trip told him, so apparently remorseful that Malcolm ventured to step down from the computer landing, although he still watched him suspiciously. "I came to apologize, sir." He kept his eyes on his boots.

            "Apologize," Reed repeated dully.

            "Yes, sir. The Captain was real mad about what I did, and he said I should apologize as soon as you were better."

            "Well," Malcolm decided, after a moment of playing the possible angles through in his head, "apology accepted." Trip looked up at him then and smiled. Malcolm was encouraged to admit, "As a matter of fact, I was feeling a bit… embarrassed about what I said, anyway."

            "Well, the doctor said you were sick," Trip pointed out.

            "Still," Malcolm shrugged. "That was a very nice left hook, by the way," he added.

            "Thank you, sir."

            "And that sort of—flip thing you did," Reed continued. "Quite effective. Where did you learn that?"

            "I guess I picked it up from the Klingons, sir," Trip told him. "They fight a lot."

            "I probably shouldn't be mentioning this to you," Malcolm said with a smirk, "but twice a week we have defense training, here in the Armory. Maybe you could show us that move again, pick up a few new ones."

            "Well, thank you, sir, I appreciate that," the young man responded, "but I'm just not that aggressive."

            "Really," Malcolm commented with some disbelief, itching his nose.

 

 

            "I agree, he does seem unusually devoted to you," T'Pol commented, choosing her words carefully.

            "What are you saying?" Archer pushed, half-hoping the steward would arrive with their meals and derail this conversation. At T'Pol's look of significance he guessed, disbelieving, "Are you saying he's— _in love_ with me?"

            "No," T'Pol replied, sparing Jon from thoughts of dealing with a lovelorn passenger. "I was speaking more of the type of devotion exhibited by _Porthos_."

            Archer found _this_ idea even more bizarre. "You think he feels like my _dog_?"

            "He _did_ break Lt. Reed's nose for suggesting you are a bad captain," the Vulcan reminded him. "It was reminiscent of the occasion when Porthos bit the Silaurian ambassador after he gave you the traditional strike of greeting."

            The Captain narrowed his eyes at her. "I hardly think _that_ single incident is enough evidence to justify the idea that he wants to be my _pet_ ," he told her sourly.

            T'Pol was about to clarify her position when the door from the galley slid open. Instead of the Captain's steward, however, the object of their conversation walked in, bearing a plate of food. "Here you go, sir," Trip announced eagerly, setting the dish down in front of Archer. In his other hand he clutched a cloth napkin and some silverware, which he attempted to arrange with much clinking. "Chef said I could bring you your food," he added unnecessarily, obviously very proud of himself.

            "Thanks, Trip, I appreciate it," Jon assured him, with some reservation. Romantic love or, er, puppy love, the Captain didn't want to do too much to encourage it.

            Satisfied with his handiwork, Trip suddenly crouched down at Archer's side, and for one frightening instant the Captain wondered if he wanted to be fed from Archer's plate. "I was thinking, Captain," Trip began, slightly hesitant, "if you had time later, maybe you could teach me that game you were talking about before, with the ball and the hoop."

            Archer didn't risk a glance at T'Pol. "You want me to play ball with you," he repeated slowly.

            "If you have time," Trip added hopefully.

            Uncertain how to respond, the Captain finally met T'Pol's gaze, which would have been amused on anyone but a Vulcan. "Trip," the First Officer said, by way of rescue.

            The young man looked over as if just seeing her for the first time. "Oh, hi, Commander," he tossed off, before resuming his wait for the Captain's reply.

            "Why don't you _fetch_ the Captain's beverage for him?" the Vulcan suggested.

            "Oh, good idea!" Trip agreed, hurrying from the room. Archer merely glared at her.

 

 

            Jon walked into his quarters and stopped before he got to the desk. Something just… wasn't… right. He couldn't figure out what it was—everything was in its proper place. Of course, Trip was sitting on the floor next to Porthos, watching him eat, but other than that…

            "Hi, Captain," the young man greeted brightly. "How was your day?"

            "Fine, thanks," Archer replied, still looking around somewhat distractedly. He finally turned back to Trip. "Does anything look… different in here to you?"

            "It's a lot cleaner, that's for sure," Trip replied, with great satisfaction.

            Jon blinked at him, then took a closer look at the furniture. Not a speck of dust to be found, not even on the highest shelves. Feeling very strange all of a sudden, Jon turned slowly back to Trip. "Did you—clean my quarters?" He was starting to wonder if maybe T'Pol had been right after all, about Trip's "fixation" for him.

            "I sure did," Trip answered, without hesitation. He climbed up from the floor to gaze around at his handiwork. "Now I was real careful, Captain," he assured Jon. "I didn't open any drawers or anything, and I put everything back _exactly_ where it was before."

            Jon had the disturbing image of Trip measuring the precise three-dimensional space occupied by every picture frame and trophy before lifting it to dust. "You know, the maintenance crew cleans in here," he began carefully. "It's part of their job, actually."

            "Oh." Trip seemed somewhat nonplussed. "How often do they clean here?"

            "Once a week."

            "I could do it every day."

            "That's not necessary," Jon assured him firmly.

            "I don't mind," Trip assured him. "I like things to be clean. The Klingons weren't much for being clean."

            "I… just don't want you to feel like you have to work for your passage on the ship," Archer explained slowly, coming up with what he felt was a plausible excuse.

            Trip's expression fell. "So I shouldn't clean in here again?"

            "I would prefer if you didn't," Jon agreed.

            "Okay, sir." The young man scuffed his foot against the deck plating. "Do you… not want me to play with Porthos anymore?" he asked painfully, staring at the ground. Porthos let out a whine that sounded to Jon's ears like admonition.

            "I think Porthos enjoys playing with you," Jon said encouragingly, feeling somehow guilty all of a sudden. "It's fine if you want to keep doing that."

            "Yes, sir," Trip answered. "Thank you, sir."

            "Just—ask before you do anything else, okay?"

            "Yes, sir."


End file.
